


Abiding Fortitude

by Hollandoodle



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, One Shot, Post-The Battle of the Blackwater, Really tiny one-shot, sansan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-09
Updated: 2017-11-09
Packaged: 2019-01-31 06:48:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12676575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hollandoodle/pseuds/Hollandoodle
Summary: Sandor's inner turmoil on their flight from King's Landing...





	Abiding Fortitude

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone! I wrote this out a couple weeks ago, and thanks to LadyCleganeofTheNorth, have turned it into something AO3-worthy. I have such a hard time venturing from AU lol. 
> 
> Enjoy!

Every night it was the same. 

Yell at the girl. 

Shut her up. 

Push her away with his words and his demeanor. 

Insult her family, her sex, her honor, until she’d sit with her slender back facing him, her incessant yammering ceased at long fucking last.

Then, when they’d lain down for the night, he’d lift his heavy arm and accept her body as she rolled into his, curling into his broad chest for the warmth and shelter he provided; that she seemed to crave.

It was an unnatural thing; the protectiveness, the possessiveness he felt over her, even after he’d spent the goodly part of his day forcing upon her reason after reason to regret the assumption that he was her savior, her rescuer. The depth of his  _ feelings _ \--gods almighty, what was happening to him?— fairly choked him with uncertainty, and slayed him with its cruel and vicious twisting of his heart. 

Then morning would come and she’d be the meek little bird, murmuring her  _ my lord _ ’s and her  _ ser _ ’s, despite his every scathing reminder that a lord and a ser he  _ was not _ .

Still they came, and still her hands shook as she handed him his food from the fire, meat burnt to a crisp being delivered by the cracked and bleeding hands of a girl not used to any amount of work or trial. And he would take it.

But he would complain.    
  
And insult.    
  
And do his  _ damnedest _ to curse the very ground she walked on, the very air she stole from him whenever she looked sideways out of those cerulean eyes through auburn lashes.

Then nighttime would be on them before he knew it. Day after fucking day, night after  _ gods damned _ night, and still she would turn to him and still his fucking arms would betray him and wrap her in a tight embrace. 

For a time, neither would move.    
  
Though he was convinced she felt as unsettled as he, for soon enough her small fingers would rise between them, just a single pale hand as silent as a falcon diving for its prey, and those fingers would alight on his throat. Just the barest fucking touch, but present enough to make his heart pound so damnably hard he was certain the organ thrashing within his chest would shudder her lithe body from his as sure as rocks on a hillside when the gods shook the ground.

Her touch seemed inquisitive, as the tips of her fingers would ghost across the coarse hairs of his neck, the wiry strands of his beard beneath his chin, and she would stroke him like the dog he was until his heart hammered and his loins were afire. There, in the space between his collar and his chin she’d pet him, sighing softly with breaths that fanned the flames of his desire, and his eyes would squeeze shut above the glistening strands of hair on her head, their color shining like spun gold as firelight reflected from the small blaze at her back.

All the while pressed feet to shin, thigh to thigh, her belly nigh smashed to his through her clothing and his armor, and he would bring his chin down to rest upon the softness of her locks as they both found restless sleep in their mutual warmth.

It was only a matter of time, then, before she was looking upon him during the day and he was feeling the unmistakeable pull, the compelling enchantment exuded in her gaze. They’d rested for the night in a small clearing in the forest, merely a ring of frozen grasses standing as immobile sentries in the absence of wind. And yet beneath the spread of their bedrolls, after weeks on the run the grass felt as yielding as the finest featherbed in King’s Landing.

With her mouth turning upwards within his embrace that night, and with the lowering of his to capture hers, the setting was ripe for passion--her willingness pitted against his hesitance, her eagerness against his wariness.

And it was that night Sansa was predator and the Hound her prey, his mouth a willing reward for her abiding fortitude.


End file.
